Willing Complication 01: Changing Leaves
by moor
Summary: Shuurei x Seiran. Little things can change over time.


**TITLE:** Changing Leaves.  
**AUTHOR:** beyondthemoor on LJ  
**RATING:** Very light T  
**GENRE:** Family/Romance-ish?

**WARNINGS:** Lack of practice. ;)

**AU/CANON:** Canon-based, no set spot in timeline

**PAIRINGS:** Shuurei x Seiran  
**WORD COUNT:** 2,200 words (approx)

**SUMMARY:** Little things can change over time.  
**NOTES:** It's been a while since I wrote for SaiMono – any and all concrit is appreciated! (Apologies for OOC!)

AN: Written for the Changing Leaves prompt on the saiun_challenge LJ comm.  


* * *

_Changing Leaves_

Shuurei pulled the collar of her wrap closer and muttered under her breath at the chill in the air.  
The cold spell had started at the end of the previous week and was expected to let up within the next few days and allow the summer to peter out gently, thankfully, but she wasn't taking any further chances. As active as she was during her days, she now needed an extra layer or two, and so she'd spent the entire morning going through her stored clothing preparing for the seasonal shift. And she absolutely refused to start lighting fires until the first frost. She determined to endure until then. Even if her fingers were red and stiff from the nip in the room.

She breathed warmth over her abused fingers and clasped them tightly for a moment to renew their blood flow before returning to her work.  
The summer clothes that were made of lighter fiber she had washed and arranged neatly folded on her bed, having already mended their weak spots. She pulled another skirt from her trunk of winter clothing now and examined it critically.

…And winced when she held it up to her slight frame.

Another one that was too short, or would only be good for housework, she sighed to herself after peeking along the hem and realizing she really couldn't let out any of the seams or stitches any further. That was very discouraging; cloth was expensive, and it was now obvious she needed to replace much of her winter clothing.

A current of air seeped and crawled over her exposed ankles and Shuurei fought the shiver that threatened to shimmy down her spine, reminding her she still needed to seal up the drafts before the weather got any colder. She mentally added that chore to her list as she reached low into the chest before her. She was sure she'd had at least one more winter garment in there…

The last skirt she pulled from her trunk was even shorter than the last.

Another breeze blew over Shuurei's feet, adding insult to injury as her grip tightened on the worn skirt.

That did it – she would just have to go temporarily raid…er, borrow… a pair of trousers from Seiran or her father for the time being.

Well, their clothing was next on her list anyway to prepare for the coming winter months…  


* * *

From the shadowed doorway, Seiran watched her, amused and confused, as she popped open another of his trunks and started rifling through his belongings.

"… has to have a spare set of old pants around here somewhere…" he heard her mumble to herself as she stood back and glared at the trunk, hands fisted on her hips. With a sigh, she carefully put his things back together and neatly arranged them in the bowels of the old chest once more.

"I believe my winter clothes are in the baskets inside the closet," the handsome observer remarked. While he'd never admit it to anyone, Seiran nearly laughed at Shuurei's gasp of surprise and subsequently embarrassed flush. He'd never admit how endearing and attractive the pink in her cheeks was, either.

"Seiran! I'm so… sorry to go through your things," and get caught, she chastised herself. Seiran knew her too well for her to bother making up an excuse for something like this, so she didn't try. He'd understand if she were to ask outright, yet… something held her back. She hadn't been snooping through his things—or hadn't meant to, at any rate—and she knew she'd been acting like a housewife, as if she had every right to search his personal quarters, but she wasn't. And it wasn't as if she'd done it because she enjoyed being in his rooms, whether he was there or not.  
Shuurei stomped down on her wayward thoughts before they ran away with her. "With the cold weather, I thought I'd--."

"Ojou-sama doesn't need to worry about mine, I was going to pull them out myself later."

"Yes, of course… I'll just go tend to papa's things, then…"

Seeing how she dawdled, still a bit mortified at being caught, Seiran considered her a moment.

She'd wrapped another shawl around her shoulders, and pulled an extra set of leggings on… He could tell because he could see far more of them than usual. On top of that, her hands and cheeks were rose from cold, even her small, adorable nose was pinked. She must be quite cold to be… Ahh. That's why she needed spare trousers.

With a casual stride, he made his way to the closet, opened the second basket in, and carried out a neat pile of folded, much-patched, trousers.

"If Ojou-sama is a bit cold and doesn't mind worn clothes, perhaps she could find a use for these?" he asked politely, offering her the garments. "The guards will provide me with a new set of winter uniforms soon, so _oomph_--!"

Shuurei blushed happily as she released Seiran from her flash embrace.

And with that, she spirited the old clothes from his hands promptly before rushing out the door—most likely to adjust them as fast as she could so she could put them on and warm up.

"Thank you, Seiran!" She raced cheerfully away, used to the familiar man's courteous chivalry and consideration. Hopefully he'd let her make it up to him for snooping through his things later.

If she had looked back on her way out of his room, though, perhaps she would have noticed the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way he stood watching after her for a moment before going to the closet and getting his winter clothes out. He might as well get that chore out of the way… Perhaps he'd find other items Shuurei could use…

* * *

  
Really, her father was useless sometimes!

Shuurei fumed at the jumbled mess of clothing she'd come upon in her father's room.

She distinctly remembered sorting out his clothes last spring, from cool-weather to warm-weather, putting them in separate bins, and sealing them up so mice and bugs wouldn't get to them.

And what happened?

It looked like he'd dumped them all out at some point and then replaced them willy-nilly.

After she screamed and yanked on her hair in frustration, the irate young woman—now duly clothed in two pairs of Seiran's faded cotton trousers—got to work…  


* * *

Long, midnight-black hair plaited back from her face and piled atop her head, soft wisps and tendrils curling around her glowing cheeks, Shuurei leaned over the stove—and felt the back of her shirt pop out from where she'd tucked it into her skirt. Yes, she definitely needed some new clothes as these ones were too short. Embarrassingly so…

Too busy to stuff it back in, she ignored it and went back to preparing the soup for their supper before turning around to the counter to chop more green beans for the stir-fry.

The rice was already steaming and its faint, homey scent wafted through the kitchen and greeted Seiran as he walked in and took up beside her in his usual spot and automatically started cutting up the carrots she'd set aside for the wok.

Shuurei smiled up at him briefly before easily skirting around his tall, broad frame to collect the ginger and garlic, and once she'd dumped them in the heated oil, he traded his bowl for hers. The exchange repeated itself until the last of the vegetables were added, and they continued on to the next dish to be made.

It was familiar, comfortable and reassuring, this routine; they were so used to each other they enjoyed the silence as much as any discussion, and it was a relaxed time that let each think their own thoughts.

For some reason that day, however, something had changed. Something intangible, but physical at the same time. Neither would acknowledge the hint of pressure between them that built the closer they worked with each other, though both sensed it minutely swelling in the increasingly warm kitchen. It leant less to relaxation and more to anticipation.

When he'd finished with the vegetables, Seiran moved on to the chicken laid out nearby. The deliberate man had noticed the untucked shirt, the too-short shirtsleeves on his Ojou's feminine, slender body. He expected Shuurei would soon bring up ways they'd need to budget in some more small jobs to accommodate the rising 'winterizing' expenses. Luckily he made enough to support himself, not that he needed much. He was a young man, no longer a growing teenager, so his expenses were minimal. But Shuurei was still blossoming.

His chopping faltered for a moment. Where had that thought come from?

Reaching for the eggs, he mentally shrugged and went back to his musings.

He wasn't surprised to note she was already wearing a pair of the trousers he'd given her earlier that day—no, what surprised the older man was how pleased he was by this fact.

Then he startled when a pale, graceful arm reached around him to grab a towel, nearly embracing him around his waist.

"Sorry, the well-water's quite cold," apologized Shuurei, rubbing her reddened hands with the kitchen-towel. "Seiran? Did I splash you?

Chalking the tingling he felt to the imagined cold water, Seiran shook his head and went back to preparing the meal.

Neither spoke again until Shouka returned from the palace to join them for supper.  


* * *

The candle the young soldier had lit was burning low, its flickering light reflecting softly in the edge of the blade he polished as he prepared to retire for the night. Rubbing the oil along the sharpened weapon relaxed him, and he gave it a final wipe before returning it to its sheath. His large, calloused hands held it in his lap, feeling the weight of it, the intention behind wielding it. He would be going on another tour, soon, and needed his tools to be in fighting condition at all times.  
Every time Shuurei saw him cleaning these tools, though, he saw the glimmer of concern in her eyes.

It was reassuring in a way, that his wellbeing mattered to someone, to her; he was used to her sending him off, and consequently welcoming him back upon his return. Another routine they shared. He always had somewhere he belonged, someone to return to, warmth that brightened when he was present.

While he may not enjoy the leaving, it was the homecoming that meant such a great deal to him.

If he would ever admit it to himself, he would acknowledge that her presence was what made the difference to him. It wasn't the food, it wasn't the warm, dry residence they shared with her father. It was her.

He'd keep that to himself as long as he could, though; possibly to his deathbed. His gratitude was selfish enough, and he could never ask for more. Even if he wanted to…

The sword's scabbard, scarred in some spots, dented in others from past battles, stared at him from his lap; his hands had tightened around the familiar width, his firm grasp colouring his knuckles white.

Because she depended so much on the balance that gave her comfort, safety, happiness. Most of all, he wanted her to be happy.

No, he thought to himself, he must not upset the balance in her home.

With a soft _schnkt_, he snapped the sword the last inch into its case, set it down to lean against the wall and blew out the candle.  


* * *

Of course, she wouldn't make it easy on him.

"Soup's on the table, I'm just waiting for the buns to finish steaming!"

Shuurei smiled widely at him as he entered the kitchen early the next morning, and he felt himself slow to a halt in his tracks.

The sleeves were too long, rolled up to her elbows to make them more manageable; it looked like it may have almost fit around her twice, she had wrapped it so securely to her person.

And yet, to him in the soft dawn light that broke through the window and cast the room in long shadows, she was absolutely beautiful wearing his tattered, discarded shirt. It was one of the half-dozen he'd left for her on her bed the evening before, shirts too small or worn for him to wear anymore while he worked. And now, too easily he could imagine her wearing it more casually, looser, the sleeves falling over her slim fingers, perhaps as a night shirt to sleep in, the neck gaping open a bit while she'd curl up under his covers waiting for him to come to bed and join her.

Without her dress to cover the hem, it probably fell past her thighs nearly to her knees, though her overskirts currently hid that confirmation from him. Topping it off, again she wore his old trousers from yesterday beneath her skirt.

And the sight of her in his clothes sent a current of healthy male possession through him. The fleeting fantasy of her standing before him in nothing but his loose shirt left him as she lifted the steaming basket from the stove and carefully set it on the table.

"You're making manjuu so early?" he asked puzzled, his mind faintly bleary from his brief lapse of attention, or rather, foray into imagination.

"As a thank-you for the new clothes," she said, sitting and waiting for him to join her.

"Ah," a nod, "you're welcome, Ojou-sama. Let me know if there's anything you'd like me to get while I'm away."

And there it was—that almost imperceptible flash of emotion behind her eyes that signaled she didn't want him to go.

So she shook her head and smiled brightly past it, at him, and replied with a simple, "No, no, just have a safe trip!"

And he would, as he always did, if only because he admitted to himself now there was so much to come back for.

The image of her in his shirt, a significantly less formal version of his shirt, surfaced in his mind as he took a bite of the manjuu.

For the first time, he gave in to the urge to contemplate, however unlikely, what it would be like to ask her for something for himself.

The leaves outside changed their colours in the autumn cycle, and with them, for the first time the thoughts of a young man at his Ojou's kitchen table followed suit.

* * *

Posted 18 Jan, 2010. END.


End file.
